


Like a Mongrel

by saliache



Series: Grand Porn Central [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: I feel so so sorry for poor Tyelpe, Knotting, M/M, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, actual torture, it doesn't end well, mentions of torture, werewolf Sauron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1282822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saliache/pseuds/saliache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: Sauron/Celebrimbor, with knotting</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Mongrel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stardustspirals](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustspirals/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Silver Bells and Honey Cakes](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/39331) by Urloth. 



He used to hate Finrod, just a little bit. It was a terrifying thought, and he always buried it under fond memories of kindness and a gentle smile and warm lips right before Finrod left forever.

 He knew now, why Finrod had gone. Why Finrod had forsaken his throne, his duties, to certain torment and death in Sauron’s dungeons.

 After all, he’d just done the same.

 But now, even as he lay here, heart-sore and aching, broken and battered and chained to a post like a mongrel cur, he smiled at the thought that his people – homeless but _alive_ – had found refuge in Khazad-dum.

 And there were other memories, of a master Khazad crafter, with a fiery, scratchy beard and chapped lips, and an equally frayed temper, who sang to the living rock in her own way. Gone now, in a death that was no accident. Perhaps her Mahal kept her soul safe now. He hoped so.

  “Ah, now there is an unexpected look on your face, Tyelpë,” Sauron said, his voice a deep, pleasant rumble. He sounded like wild fires and hot metal today, Celebrimbor thought. “And entirely inappropriate for your situation.”

 With great difficulty, he opened his eyes. He did not want to face the world, not now, not with what was going to happen. Sauron stood over him, an uncharacteristically gentle expression on his face. It reminded him of Annatar, and that thought hurt the most. He slid his eyes shut again and fought back tears.

 “Do you remember when you told me you hated Sauron most of all?” that strident voice rang out. “That was very rude of you.”

 He wished he could block his hearing as well, curl up into a protective ball where no one could hurt him again. A cold, wet nose nuzzled his shattered collarbone, and a rough tongue licked at the bruised expanse of his neck pensively. His eyes flew open in shock.

 There was only Sauron, standing over him. “Do you want to know?” he whispered conspiratorially. “What I did to Finrod, and how he begged before his death?”

 “Lies,” he croaked.

 Sauron laughed. “Truth,” he said. “And did you not tell me yourself, all those nights we spent together, that you will enjoy this?”

 “I will not,” he whispered. “Not from you. Not like this.” 

“Semantics,” Sauron hissed, and slid his eyes shut.

 The wolf was back. Or a dog, or some other large canine. But it whined softly, and snuffled at him, sliding its nose back and forth across bruises, across scabs, across swelling where something inside had broken but not penetrated the skin, and he knew it for a wolf, and he knew it was Sauron.

 “Impossible,” he said. The word came out easily enough. (“I will not damage that pretty mouth of yours, or truly any part of you that prevents you from redeeming yourself. Now, where are they?”)

 He flicked his eyes open. It did not matter now, with the sanctity of his mind broken. Sauron was playing with his hand again, carefully dissecting out nerves and tendons and ligaments and leaving behind useless flesh. It hurt abominably.

 The wolf prodded at his collar with strangely articulated paws, turning it this way and that, as if trying to find a hinge or solder-point. There was none.

 “Impossible,” he whispered again, more words than he had spoken since… since Sauron had slit the tendons behind his knees, forcing him to kneel to the laughter of his Men, the jeering of his Orcs. How long ago had that been? Perhaps not long enough. Perhaps his people still fled, were still vulnerable. “Impossible.”

 The wolf snuffled sympathetically at the scars on his back. He opened his eyes again, and Sauron read the question in them.

 “Nearly two years now, Tyelpë. You are the last.”

 Last. Last of the Mírdain. Last of his colleagues, his friends, closer than family and just as gone. Tears pricked at his eyes, and he struggled to contain them.

 The wolf slid blunt nails down his back, over his hips, between his thighs, parting them easily. Its tongue followed, warm and wet and intensely flexible, sliding everywhere he did not want it to.

  _It can’t-_ he thought, and it did, thrusting home smoothly, teeth digging into the empty socket of his left shoulder, pinning him in place. He thought of opening his eyes, of Sauron ruining his other hand (What use is a smith with no hands? Even a one-handed smith might putter about, but this was never about surviving, anyways, and he did not think he could ever have the heart to forge again, not after this), and could not.

 It did not fuck him like Annatar did, with care and caution and the clever pleasure of stimulated nerves. It was larger than Annatar had been, much larger, and a tiny corner of his mind that had gone mad long ago laughed and said, _doesn’t this say something about the size of Sauron’s ego, then_?

 He shuddered, and he tried to fight it, to buck it off, but it lay on him, its fine, soft fur needling his back. It shuddered and ground its hips against his, and he thought that something in him must surely split asunder from the size of it.

 “Stop!” he screamed. “Stop it! Please!”

 It slid its paw forward and stroked his finger where a ring once sat.

 “No, please. I cannot. Anything but that. Please!” The paw retreated, and he cried out in despair.

 “Anything?” Sauron said, and cradled his head gently between hands still wet with his own blood. Hard nail-claws pricked at his eyelids, held them open. His right arm was a mass of inarticulate fire below the elbow.

 “Anything?” he growled.

 He had probably always known it might come to this. Two choices, both unbearable.

 “Please,” he breathed.

 He opened his eyes long enough to see clawed thumbs descend (“Beautiful, Tyelpë. Show me _more_.”), and then Sauron was the wolf again. He knew he should be screaming right now, or trying to salvage his sight, or _something_ , but there was only the softness and the wolf of Sauron’s form and that horrible, horrible pressure, and only an odd fuzziness when he tried to think of his eyes.

 As much as he hated it, Sauron knew exactly how to play him, where to aim and how to move in a way that felt like betrayal, and his body responded.

  _I will break your spirit_ , the wolf sighed.

  _You broke my spirit long ago, when you first took me to bed._ And hadn’t that been the beginning of the end, really, when he had willingly bound himself to the Maia he hated most.

 His awareness dissolved into rutting, in the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh, in the pain of not enough preparation, in the knot of pleasure forming in his belly, in the nausea and heartache and the terrible, mind-rending knowledge of violation,

 And Sauron knew him, and played him with expert knowledge, and his body betrayed him. _This is rape_ , he thought, even as his hips thrust back, as precum dribbled between his legs, as the great werewolf _filled_ him like nothing ever had before. It could not pull out now.

  _Please_ , he thought, and wondered at the asking.

 And Sauron finally came, still grinding against him, and came, and came. Liquid swilled inside him, trapped there, and he struggled to drag himself free, to no avail. Sauron was still hard, and to his horror he realized the Maia – the Valarauko – was moving again. _This cannot be real_ , he thought, but to his spirit it was real enough. His fëa shrieked with torment, bound to its body by forces outside its control, driven near to madness from the trauma it had been forced to sustain, and to his horror he found the wolf’s paws were scraping their way between his legs.

 “Three rings for the elven-kings under the sky,” the wolf whimpered. It stroked him gently, feeling him twitch and shudder around it. “One for the maiden, crowned in radiant light. One for the High King, last of his kind. One for the shipwright, gifted and wise. You would have done well to listen to them, Tyelpë.” 


End file.
